


How To Be Dead

by austin_to_boston



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Concussed Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Vomiting, Worried Sam Winchester, dean is dazed & confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27030112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austin_to_boston/pseuds/austin_to_boston
Summary: “Tell me your birthday, Dean. How old are you?”Sammy should know that’s a stupid question to ask – he’s died so many times, he’s lost track.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 25





	How To Be Dead

A car horn blares, lights blind him amidst a cacophony of screeching tires and Sam’s voice yells “ _Duuude_!” in the far, far distance. Then it erupts into a coughing fit.

This is the moment when Dean becomes fully aware of just how difficult he’s been finding it to stay awake.

He blinks blearily out of the front windscreen at the now empty road. He can feel Sam glaring at him; can’t muster the energy to mumble an insult or an excuse for his carelessness or anything that resembles a coherent sentence, really.

Realises his foot is still depressing the gas pedal and releases it, pulling his toes up through the thick black tar that’s been keeping them stuck there. The impala gradually loses its momentum and eventually comes to a stop.

Nonetheless, the intensity of Sam’s bitch-face does not let up. “ _Dude_. Pull _over_!”

Oh. Right.

Somehow, Dean manoeuvres himself, the car and Sam from the middle of the road to… well, not-the-middle-of-the-road. Switches off the engine and sits there for a moment, trying to remember what to do next.

Sam shifts awkwardly on the bench as he turns to face Dean as fully as he can, one hand on his stomach and a pained expression on his face.

“Dude,” Sam says for the third time, waving his free arm around emphatically as if hoping to gesticulate some sense into Dean. “I know I’m the one with the bullet wound, but _seriously_ ,” and he does have his serious face on, Dean notes vaguely, “what is _with_ you? I’ve not seen you this spaced since you, uh, ‘accidentally’ made that omelette with Rowena’s leftover shrooms and then spent a week in the bath, convinced you were a friggin’ _hammerhead_!”

Dean considers his brother’s words. Takes a long, slow breath and opens his mouth, ready to eloquently explain to Sam the nature of his current situation: that yes, earlier that day he had indeed been taser-ed and most likely concussed, but the pretty doctor had given him the all-clear and he was feeling much better thank you very much, and by the time Sam showed up back from the dead it was his hunter’s instincts keeping him alert, not the sheer adrenaline that accompanied seeing Sam miraculously _alive_ , and there was no need to treat him as if he was some kind of suicidal Hendrix-wannabe flying high on an over-dose of barbiturates because that certainly was not the case, and none of the symptoms presently being exhibited would even remotely suggest that such a thing could have happened.

All that comes out is: “S’my, I d’n feel s’good.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Sam scowls, and before Dean knows it he’s being manhandled across the bench so Sam can take residence in the driver’s seat, his movements accompanied by numerous curses and groans and exclaims of “ _holy-fuck-that-hurts_ ”. He throws the car into gear and they re-join the road with an unpleasant jolt.

\--

And maybe Dean loses some time here because when he next opens his eyes it’s stopped raining, his nostrils are filled with a horribly familiar sour smell, his throat hurts and Sam no longer looks angry, he just looks scared.

“-thday, Dean.”

With an immense effort, Dean turns his head to the left and it revolts with a wave of unbearable pressure. “Hngh?”

“Tell me your _birthday_ , Dean. How old are you?”

Sam’s face is white and the muscle in his clenched jaw twitches uncontrollably as he stares straight ahead, fingers clutching the steering wheel like a nervous learner driver.

Dean looks down. He’s covered in a white, foamy substance. He’s not sure how it got there. The smell of it is making him gag. His head hurts.

Sammy should know that’s a stupid question to ask – he’s died so many times, he’s lost track.

\--

Dean proceeds to spend a good portion of the night huddled under a threadbare blanket on a mouldy bathroom floor, dozing against the grimy wall in between bouts of vomiting, cracked ribs protesting with each violent retch, and certainly not shedding any tears of frustration at his inability to recall his age.

Hours later, when his head feels a bit clearer, he attempts to verbalise his feelings regarding the previous day’s events, telling the dingy motel ceiling the truth (well, mostly) about what had happened to him in the aftermath of finding Sam lying on that cabin floor. His brother responds with a soft snore from the adjacent bed.

\--

When the morning comes, Sam takes every available moment to express his great relief at Dean’s impressively speedy recovery from what he dubs “one of your worst concussions this side of Stanford”. Dean ignores these comments to the best of his ability; pushes his lingering symptoms aside and reclaims the role of caretaker as he tends to Sam’s recovery from the whole being-shot/being-choked/losing-half-his-blood extravaganza. Amazingly, Sam tolerates the mother hen routine with little-to-no snarky comments – Dean reckons he must have been really out of it yesterday to elicit such a mellow response to his mollycoddling.

Predictably, in the light of day, Dean can no longer bear the thought of explaining that the majority of his confusion and fatigue and vomiting (poor Baby) was a direct result of his inability to live in a world without Sam. Instead, he preps for the 17-hour drive home with _The Eagle_ (Nampa, ID’s finest classic rock station, according to the over-enthusiastic presenter), a triple-shot black coffee and a horribly greasy bacon sandwich. Dons his sunglasses to block out some of those harsh UV rays that make his brain want to scream. Plasters a smile on his face and tells his long-suffering little brother, “Change that station and you’re toast. And I’m 37, dumbass.”


End file.
